Chapter Text
The ivory envelope stamped with the Posen family's military crest arrived at Beca’s Los Angeles studio on a Tuesday afternoon. Inside was no warm invitation, but an order of the day disguised as a gala: Colonel Posen’s sixtieth birthday celebration at the family estate in Georgia.
Two days later, Aubrey stood in the doorway of Beca’s apartment, pale-faced with a spiral notebook clutched in her hand.
"It’s a non-disclosure agreement and a behavioral guide," Aubrey said without greeting, stepping across the threshold with rigid strides. "If my father finds out I’m still single and considering restructuring the Morningside camp network without his financial oversight, he will strip me of control over the trust fund. I need to present myself with a stable partner. Someone who proves to him that my life isn't the 'undisciplined chaos' he thinks it is."
Beca raised an eyebrow, leaning against the kitchen island with a mug of coffee in hand.
"And your brilliant idea to look like a disciplined, traditional adult was... bringing me? The girl with tattoos who makes a living mixing beats at three in the morning?"
"It’s perfect," Aubrey shot back, keeping her chin high even as her knuckles turned white against the notebook. "My father hates everything you represent. If I show him I’m with someone like you and that I maintain control in the relationship, he’ll understand he can't manipulate me. Besides... he would never accept that I like women. Bringing you is my way of telling him the truth without giving him the satisfaction of an explanation."
"Basically, you're hiring me as your human shield and your family’s worst nightmare." Beca smirked, though her dark eyes traced Aubrey's overly tense posture. "Deal, Posen. But I refuse to memorize your notebook."
The main ballroom of the Posen mansion smelled of polished wood, expensive flowers, and high-society perfume. Men in dress uniforms and women in elegant gowns conversed in perfect circles under crystal chandeliers.
Aubrey wore a fitted emerald-green dress that accentuated every curve, but her back was so stiff she looked carved from marble. Beside her, Beca wore a tailored black suit with her shirt subtly unbuttoned at the collar, standing out just enough to draw covert glances from the guests.
"Rule number three," Aubrey whispered in Beca’s ear, her breath icy with nerves brushing against the skin of Beca's neck. "'Subtle physical contact in public to project intimacy.'"
Before Beca could answer, Aubrey slid her hand over hers. But it wasn't a casual grip; Aubrey intertwined her fingers with Beca’s with almost desperate force. The contrast between the coldness of Aubrey’s hands and the warmth of Beca’s skin made Beca’s breath catch.
"Relax, Posen," Beca murmured, stepping close enough for their shoulders to bump. "You’re going to break my hand before we even reach the bar."
"I’m not nervous," Aubrey lied, though her thumb began stroking the back of Beca’s hand in an unconscious gesture found in no notebook.
Halfway through the reception, a string quintet began playing a slow waltz on the makeshift dance floor. Several officers and their wives stepped out to dance.
"Your dad is watching us from the fireplace," Beca said softly, taking a step closer to Aubrey. "If we want this to be believable, you’re going to have to dance with me."
Aubrey blinked, caught off guard. "There’s no waltz in the guide, Mitchell..."
"Improvise."
Beca didn't wait for an answer. She slid her hand firmly around Aubrey’s waist, pulling her in until there was no air left between them. A smothered gasp escaped Aubrey's lips. Her free hand rose instinctively to Beca’s shoulder, wrapping around her neck as her fingers dug lightly into the fabric of Beca's suit jacket.
They began moving to the slow rhythm of the music. Beca led with a quiet confidence that completely threw Aubrey off. The proximity was overwhelming: Aubrey's gardenia perfume enveloped Beca, while Beca’s intense, dark gaze held Aubrey firmly in place.
"You’re doing pretty well for someone who didn't rehearse," Beca whispered, tilting her head. Her lips nearly grazed Aubrey’s earlobe.
A shiver ran down Aubrey’s spine. Instead of pulling away, she leaned even closer against Beca, resting her chin subtly on Beca's shoulder.
"Don't ruin the moment, Mitchell," Aubrey murmured against Beca’s ear, her voice dropping lower. "My father is still watching."
"Let him watch all he wants," Beca replied, tightening her grip on Aubrey's waist. The "fake couple" facade was beginning to blur in the heat of the dance floor; the steady brush of their hips and their synchronized breathing far surpassed any act.
The bubble burst when Colonel Posen tapped his glass with a silver spoon to call everyone to the table.
Dinner was the slow-motion train wreck they both saw coming. At the mahogany table, Colonel Posen presided from the head, his eyes fixed on Beca as if she were a strange pest on his spotless tablecloth.
"So, Miss Mitchell..." the Colonel said, clinking the ice cubes in his glass of scotch. "Aubrey has always had a penchant for difficult projects. I suppose modern music is an acceptable pastime until one looks for something with real substance."
Aubrey froze. She let go of Beca’s hand under the table, gripping her fork so tightly her knuckles went white. She opened her mouth to spit out the rehearsed response from her script, but Beca beat her to it.
"It’s not a pastime, Colonel," Beca interrupted calmly, holding his gaze without flinching. "I produce albums that make millions, and I earn my living without having to order anyone around. And Aubrey isn't trying to 'fix' me. She’s with me because I’m the only person who doesn't need her to act like she’s in a military parade to value her."
The silence at the table was suffocating. Aubrey stared at Beca, eyes wide in absolute shock. Nobody talked to her father like that. Nobody.
Underneath the tablecloth, Beca’s hand found Aubrey’s again, squeezing it firmly to offer support. Aubrey didn't let go for the rest of the evening.
When they finally managed to slip away to the guest room—the only one assigned to them under her father’s strict, disapproving gaze—the weight of the day crashed down all at once.
The room was massive, decorated in cool, muted tones. Beca threw herself onto the bed without taking off her shoes, letting out a long sigh.
"Your old man is charming, Posen. We should do this every weekend."
No response.
Beca waited a few seconds, expecting Aubrey's quick, sarcastic comeback or a correction about her posture. Nothing. The silence in the room grew heavy.
Beca pushed herself up on her elbows. In the adjoining bathroom, through the cracked door, a bright white light illuminated Aubrey standing in front of the vanity mirror. She had taken off the emerald dress and wore a simple nightgown, holding a cotton pad soaked in micellar water.
She was completely still.
One hand rested on the edge of the sink, the other suspended halfway to her face. She dropped the cotton pad. With mechanical movements, Aubrey began wiping away her eye makeup, but silent tears were already streaming down her cheeks, ruining the work before she could finish. There were no sobs, no drama—just a muted, exhausted cry revealing years of extreme restraint.
Beca stood up quietly. She walked slowly over to the bathroom door and leaned against the frame.
"Hey..." Beca murmured softly.
Aubrey startled slightly as she caught Beca’s reflection in the mirror. She quickly swiped the back of her hand across her face, trying to dry her cheeks with almost punishing harshness.
"I’m fine," Aubrey said, her voice raspy and tight. "It’s just... makeup got in my eyes. It’s stupid. Tomorrow we have to get up at seven for the family breakfast and we haven't reviewed section four of the notebook, and—"
"Aubrey."
The use of her first name—no last name, no teasing tone—stopped Aubrey dead in her tracks.
Beca took a step inside and gently took the used cotton pad from her hand. She grabbed a clean tissue, wetted it slightly, and moved closer. Aubrey stood paralyzed as Beca raised her hand and, with a gentleness she rarely showed the world, began cleaning the dark tracks of mascara that tears had dragged down Aubrey’s cheek.
"You don't have to act around me," Beca whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on Aubrey’s face, just inches away. "There’s no script to follow in here. And your father is an idiot."
Aubrey let out a shaky breath, the first real crack in her armor. Her blue eyes, bright with tears, met Beca’s.
"It’s exhausting, Beca," she confessed in a whisper, letting her shoulders slump. "I try to do everything right. I try to make everything perfect so that just once he’ll look at me and not see a disappointment. And I can't even tell him who I really am without feeling like I’m going to ruin everything."
"Then screw him," Beca replied instantly. Her hand slid down from Aubrey’s face to cup her cheek, her warm skin contrasting with the chill of the bathroom. "You don't have anything to fix, Aubrey. His expectations were what was broken, not you."
Aubrey swallowed hard. The closeness between them no longer had anything to do with the fake dance or the rules in the notebook. The warmth of the closed bathroom, Aubrey’s heavy breathing, and the steadiness with which Beca held her transformed vulnerability into electric tension.
Aubrey’s eyes dropped to Beca’s lips.
"You said at the table that you weren't with me to fix me," Aubrey murmured, her voice barely audible.
"I'm not."
"Then why are you here, Mitchell?"
Beca didn't answer with words. She closed the final inches between them and rested her forehead against Aubrey’s, feeling the girl's racing pulse against her own skin.
"You tell me," Beca whispered. "Because I think we both know this trip stopped being a lie the second you took my hand on the dance floor."